


Meaningless Words

by RubyGlass



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Adult Eren Yeager, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, American Eren Yeager, Angst, Eren can speak French too, French-Speaking Levi (Shingeki no Kyojin), M/M, One Shot, POV Third Person, Persistent Eren, Romantic Soulmates, Self-Indulgent, Sexual Content, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, alternating pov, belgium - Freeform, riren - Freeform, tsundere Levi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 22:44:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6678349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubyGlass/pseuds/RubyGlass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eren stared at the words for countless hours, scratched in their familiar script along his forearm; the lines permanent and mocking. His soulmate was out there somewhere with matching words inscribed in their own skin. Words that were supposed to mean something, yet somehow didn’t. Words in a language he couldn’t identify. Words that he should be able to figure out, but couldn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meaningless Words

**Author's Note:**

> So, I had a long break between studying for my finals, and I was going to write my updates for my ongoing fics, and then I came across a [tumblr post](http://erenbaegerr.tumblr.com/post/143433491022/a-sociological-look-at-soulmate-universes) and got inspired or some bullshit and spent my entire break, and then some, writing this self-indulgent one-shot.
> 
> So, I used this as a practice for third person, which is a POV that doesn't come naturally to me.  
> Hope you guys like it! Otherwise I wasted time I _should_ have been studying writing a shitty fic that never should have existed.

The words had been there as long as he could remember: scrawled across his arm in a rough, hurried script. They were foreign to him, meaningless and strange. 

In his fifth year, he asked his parents what they meant. Their responses were unsatisfactory at best, leaving more questions than they answered. The second half of the script etched into his tan skin with pink, scar-like lines was identifiable enough: the language of the homeland he’d never visited, that he’d never bothered to learn: 

_Und aus Stärke, Hoffnung._

_And from strength, hope._

What it meant remained as mysterious as the first half of the text, scrawled in an unidentifiable language: 

_Du espwer, foirt_

Starting in his eighth year, he combed through online message boards dedicated to the words. Spent endless hours scouring through online databases, spoke with countless anonymous users, contacted unimaginable quantities of strangers about where to direct his search next, where to look, which rock to overturn. 

He spent years plugging them into online translators trying to find the origin, web searches returned a result of “did you mean: Fort Espers?”, message board trawlers seemed stumped. 

Despite the lack of answers, he learned many things: 

No, the words wouldn’t go away. 

Yes, there was only one match. 

Yes, it was possible for the words to be in multiple languages. 

No, it wasn’t that rare. 

_Du espwer, foirt._

He stared at the words for countless hours, scratched in their familiar script along his forearm; the lines permanent and mocking. His soulmate was out there somewhere with matching words inscribed in their own skin. Words that were supposed to mean something, yet somehow didn’t. Words in a language he couldn’t identify. Words that he should be able to figure out, but couldn’t. 

He spent years looking: posting, commenting, asking. Hoping his soulmate would come forward and explain it for him. They had to know what it meant, didn’t they? If he didn’t know, that must mean they did. That was how this worked, right? The words were supposed to be a guide, a crude map of sorts or something. What good was a map you couldn’t even read? 

Maybe, if he found the right board, post the right thing, contacted the right person, his soulmate would see it, would find him and they’d connect. It happened often: stories of couples finding their mate on message boards, or through support groups. Whole communities existed online dedicated to the search, he’d been a part of them, helped connect people across the state, across the country, across the globe. 

He spent years searching, hoping someone would be able to connect him to the one he was meant for. And for years he was disappointed. 

It wasn’t until his thirteenth year that someone suggested, based purely on speculation and two years of public school French, that the meaning of the phrase that mocked him could be “From hope, strength.”. And, even though the actual language remained a mystery, the translation made sense. 

_From hope, strength. And from strength, hope._

The words meant nothing to him. 

They sounded like something you would find in a shitty poem written by an edgy eighth grader, or splayed across a motivational poster in a vice-principal’s office. Not like magic words imprinted into your skin designed to have a special meaning, to help you find your perfect match. 

What good were words that meant nothing? 

He became frustrated, abandoning the posting: the commenting and asking. He stopped the web searches, and the endless hours of staring at the words, and he tried to live for himself, not for the person on the other end of the coded message that irritated him. 

In his sixteenth year, out of morbid curiosity, he returned to the message boards. Just to see, just in case something had come up in the years he’d spent bonding with real life humans, instead of obsessing over a theoretical being; years he spent sneaking out of bedrooms and into bedrooms, making friends and losing them, falling in love and experiencing heart break, and doing his best to forget the confusing scrawl on his forearm. 

In his sixteenth year, on a low-traffic message board dedicated to minority languages of Europe that he hadn’t visited in over three years, he found he had received, and missed for nearly a year and a half, a private message: 

“It’s Walloon.” 

What the fuck was a Walloon? 

Several hours, and several web searches later, he had answers. 

No, Walloon wasn’t a made-up nonsense word. 

Yes, Walloon was a language. 

More specifically, a dialect from Belgium. 

Spoken by Walloons. 

Who lived in Wallonia. 

Yes, the correct translation of the mocking phrase engraved into his arm was: 

_From hope, strength. And from strength, hope._

Meaningless. 

But questions were answered; his desire reignited, now driven by a new lead and the proposition of finally finding the answer to the riddle that were the words carved on his arm. 

Yes, it was a dialect of French. 

In his seventeenth year, he took up French. 

Yes, it was only spoken in Belgium. 

In his eighteenth year, he became obsessed with waffles and chocolate. 

Yes, a one-way flight from Chicago O’Hare to Brussels South Charleroi could be purchased for under $1,000. 

In his twenty-first year, he boarded a plane. 

Yes, you could get a one-bedroom apartment in Liège for less than 600€ a month. 

In his twenty-first year, he moved to Belgium. 

###### 

###### 

“She’s all yours” Long fingers wrapped around keys, each ridge that pushed into pale skin would leave a unique pattern across his palm. 

Tumblers clicked into place, a knob turned, and the gentle, cool air of the shop met the stagnant air of Liège in June. 

“You’ll take good care of her, yeah?” Apprehension on a bespectacled face. 

A look of condescension, of incredulity, in response. Of course he’d take good care of the damned shop. He wouldn’t deign to dignify that with more of a response than a roll of his eyes and a click of his tongue. 

“I’ll come by tomorrow to visit.” A warm smile, genuine. 

“Of course.” The door shut behind him and he was alone with it: _His_ shop 

It was small, smaller than he remembered. It had been years since he had set foot in the shop. Years since he’d stepped foot in Liège. But here he was, key to the intimate shop wrapped tightly into his palm, familiar smell of brewing tea and book binding glue invading his nose. 

He was home, for all intents and purposes. Though he’d never lived here, per say, he spent years behind the counter pouring tea, years among the books taking intermittent breaks to read the cover of titles that caught his eyes as he restocked the shelves. 

It was more a home to him than his mother’s one-bedroom apartment in the slums, or his uncle’s run-down townhome on the far side of town. He remembered it fondly; always associated with the woman who was more of a parental figure in his life than his own parents. Warm, and inviting. Caring and calm. Far away from his mother’s drug addictions, and his uncle’s shady dealings. How that angel of a woman produced such horrible excuses for functioning adults would forever remain one of his greatest questions for the world. 

Her shop was his, now, not that he knew what he was going to do with it. 

The likely answer was nothing. Nostalgia would most probably prevent him from making too many changes. Perhaps a new tea distributor, or an upgraded register. One with a computer, and built in card reader would be nice. 

There was much to do, however. Months of neglect had left the once spotless shop in disarray, something he knew would cause her to roll over in her grave. 

Days of taking inventory, restocking shelves, placing orders for new teas, and cleaning followed until once again he found himself standing behind a sparkling counter, pouring tea into freshly washed cups, and stopping to read the cover of a book that caught his eye as he restocked the shelves, the doors finally reopened for business. 

His settled into a routine quickly, one unintentionally reminiscent of his life before leaving Liège: 

Wake up. 

Brew a cup of coffee. 

Go to Olympe’s for a long day of entertaining customers, and pouring tea. 

Come home. 

Go to sleep. 

Repeat. 

Regulars would visit, pay their respects or update him on their lives before flitting back out his door only to return the next day, or the next week, or whatever fit their fancy. 

His friends would visit on lunchbreaks, or on a weekend. Sip a cup of tea and talk for hours - with him and his customers. 

He built a nice rhythm for himself, it was uncomplicated and familiar, low stress and relaxing. After nearly a decade and a half of living the opposite, it was a comfort. 

He hired a student on from the local university to watch the shop while he was away: visiting friends in other cities, a sick day here or there, wherever his life took him. He spent years being told where to go, when to be, how to live. No longer would he take orders on the way in which he lived his life. He was content to sit in his shop, sipping his tea, reading his books, making his own decisions. He was finally in control of his own life, and it felt more amazing than he ever remembered anything feeling before. 

In his third month of ownership, as the leaves began turning and the wind began to blow colder, things changed. 

“Bounjour, Madame Ophélie?” An accented call from the front door of his shop over the clinking of the bells that announced a new arrival. 

Eyebrows quirked in curiosity: he didn’t know his grandmother kept company with foreigners. 

“She’s dead.” He called to the man who stumbled through the door, heavy boxes piled high to his nose, balanced precariously in his grip. 

“She’s what?” The response was pure shock, his face falling along with the boxes from his hands. 

“Dead.” Repeated, slower in case the foreigner’s grasp on French was poor. 

“Since when?” He looked at the boxes’ contents, now scattered across the floor of his shop and sighed silently. Such a mess. 

“About four months.” 

“No one told me.” Was a strange response. 

“Why would anyone tell you?” He asked, walking slowly towards the man kneeling on the floor to help collect the books that had spilled and repack the boxes. 

“I’m her distributor.” That would explain the books. 

“I’m her grandson.” 

“Levi?” The foreigner’s head snapped up, smiling cerulean eyes making contact with quicksilvers narrowed in confusion. 

There was no chance to ask how this foreigner knew his name. 

All too quickly, he was distracted by searing pain shooting down his forearm: like someone had thrust his arm into a fire, or prodded him with a burning iron: the sting was unbelievable and brutal. He tore at his sleeve to get to the skin beneath; wondering what on earth could have possibly burned him so harshly, only to find no flames licking at his skin, no hot iron pressed against his forearm, and no burned blemishes marking him. 

Only words he’d forgotten about, words he hadn’t so much as thought of for nearly a decade. Words that meant nothing to him, words that confused him, and wasted his time. 

Meaningless drivel that he wished he could erase. 

Their shape was still the familiar, yet foreign, cursive sloppily carved into his skin like a scar: 

_Du espwer, foirt. Und aus Stärke, Hoffnung._

_From hope, strength. And from strength, hope._

Words he’d known since he was young, words that still meant nothing to him. 

And they were burning, searing into his flesh, hot and red. 

###### 

###### 

It was love at first sight. 

The river, the contrasting modern and historic architecture, the people. 

Everything. 

Liège was perfect. 

It hadn’t taken him long to adjust: a new job for a publishing company; a tiny, but livable, one-room apartment within walking distance of work; a small community of expats found at a local American style bar to help ease the transition. 

He missed home: his friends, his parents, his life. But he never once regretted his decision. 

Even if he couldn’t know for sure if he would find his soulmate in Belgium, or even in Liège, it was an adventure, a plunge he knew he had to take after discovering the language engraved on his skin. 

He had to know. 

In his first year, he held out hope he would find his fate: his soulmate, his perfect match. 

In his second year, he did his best to ignore his failure. 

In his third year, closing in fast on the quarter-way mark in life, he began to wonder if he’d ever find his intended. 

In his fourth year, he met Ophélie. 

Short and gray, but full of fire, Madame Ophélie was always the highlight of his day. 

The proprietor of Olympe’s, one of Enquête Presse’s oldest purchasers, she took an immediate liking to the him, four years into his Belgian experiment. She sat him down on his first delivery to her quaint shop, refusing to let him leave without at least one cup of tea. 

Her dedication to the drink had always astonished him, someone who was more appreciative of a hot cup of coffee in a country that mostly agreed with him. But he had let her pour him a cup, and listened to her stories. 

It became ritual, one that soon bled over into his life outside of delivering books to her doorstep. He took to visiting on days off, sitting and letting Madame Ophélie talk his ear off about whatever topic held her fancy on that particular day. 

Holding her cup delicately from the rim as she sipped her Earl Grey, or Jasmine Green, she would regale him stories from her youth during the war, when the Germans occupied her town on their way to France. Or of her children, whom she outlived. Some days it would be gossip from her regulars: who was unfaithful to whom, who was having whose baby, who was losing their home to debt. 

Madame Ophélie was always entertaining, never dull. Her stories were always filled with life, and jokes that would make him blush. But his favorite days were the days she spun tales of her grandson: Capitaine Levi Ackerman of the Belgian Land Component’s 104th Cavalry. 

Stories of his youth, stories from his adventures in the army, how he rose through the ranks to become captain of his own company, how he was her beloved baby boy, and she just knew that he and Levi would get along. She would have to introduce the men once her grandson returned home, she decided one day a few months after their meeting. He’d been gone for quite some time, she explained. But he’d be home soon, she’d promised that the next time her grandson was in town he would be the first to know. 

By the end of his fourth year, he felt like he already knew the mysterious man named Levi. He’d seen the pictures Madame Ophélie hung behind her counter: ones of a young man with black hair scowling at a birthday cake, the same young man in an officer’s uniform, and again standing and smiling next to Madame Ophélie behind the shop’s counter. 

His look was harsh – from cheekbone to haircut he was more angle than curve: sharp and defined. His eyes were steely and small, set deep into his face, framed by severe eyebrows and long lashes. The man was surely attractive, in the fascinating sense of the word with looks that were by no means conventional, and he couldn’t help but be drawn in. 

In his fifth year, when his eyes finally laid upon those curious features and steely grays, flecks of blue apparent in the iris up close, he found himself drawn in even further. 

Words bit into his skin, scorching in alarm, but unsurprised, he ignored it. 

Maybe some part of him always knew, or maybe he had secretly hoped. Maybe he was too amazed at finally being in front of the man he’d become so acquainted with from the stories of an old woman he’d befriended. 

He watched the shop owner flail and paw at his sleeve, desperately trying to get to the skin beneath in an attempt to stop the fire burning there. 

Instinctively, he reached out, hand resting tentatively on a shaking shoulder, and the burning ceased as if it had never happened in the first place. 

The shoulder shrugged the hand away, knees pushed up from the floor, the only words spoken “leave your books and get out of my shop.” 

This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. 

They were supposed to fall into each other, embrace, perhaps cry a bit and kiss away the tears. 

They were supposed to fall in love, they were meant for each other, after all. 

This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. 

“No.” Indignant. 

“Get out.” Insistent. 

“No.” Defiance had always been his strong suit, and he pulled a stool away from the counter violently to take his usual seat: the one closest to the register, the one with easiest access to the person behind the counter, the one with the best location for conversing with lovely, gray-haired old ladies; not black-haired, black-souled, soulmates with an attitude problem. 

“I’ll have a cup. Surprise me.” He produced his wallet, tender extended to his grouchy soulmate across the counter. It was snatched from his hand with a grimace. 

He watched the man work: thin fingers pulling supplies from cabinets and shelves; shoulders extending and flexing; a scowl that, although being witnessed for the first time, was familiar. 

“Your grandmother was a nice lady, you know. You, not so much.” A grunt in reply, steam rising as water boiled. 

“I’m Eren, by the way.” He figured an introduction wouldn’t hurt, he felt like he knew the man’s life story, but the man knew nothing of him aside from that they were destined for each other. 

"Are you really going to ignore me?” he begged, watching water pour in to steep the tea. 

“Do you take honey?” A sigh in frustration, fingers to the bridge of his nose to relieve tension. 

“Honestly, are you a five-year-old?” 

“Perhaps.” The bland response. Two large servings of honey were scooped into the cup, he bit back a groan of disgust. Much too much, even for someone still unaccustomed to drinking hot, leaf water. 

“You do realize that I’m your soulmate, right?” 

“If that’s all, I thank you for your business. Now, drink your tea and kindly leave.” 

He drank his tea obediently, eyes trained to the captain as the man continued his work. 

He did not kindly leave. 

###### 

###### 

The second day the obnoxious foreigner did not return. He was relieved, briefly, hoping that was the end of that. 

Something told him it was too much to ask. 

He had never asked for a soulmate, never wanted one. He enjoyed his solitary existence far too much to ever entertain the idea of seeking his “perfect match” out. He was enjoying living his life for himself, and now the universe had tossed a persistent, foreign brat onto his plate to deal with. 

He cursed his luck and turned to pour himself a large cup of Earl Grey. 

The third day, the foreigner was back. The man took a seat on the stool closest to the register, arms folded on the counter carefully, eyes he could feel trained to his back. 

“Cup of Masala Chai, please. No honey, this time, thank you.” The foreigner produced exact change, waving it in his face. 

Who had he wronged in a past life to deserve this? 

“What happened to Madame Ophélie?” the man asked after he turned to prepare the tea. He didn’t have to answer any of this man’s questions. He owed the foreigner nothing. 

“She was so nice to me, you know. She would talk my ear off for hours about whatever fancied her that particular day, always loved her stories. She seemed rather fond of you.” Chin perched on palm, elbow to the counter. Nonchalant. 

Oh, fuck it. Maybe he should just tell the brat, maybe that would shut him up. 

“A stroke. It was sudden, she went quickly from what I hear.” A few blissful moments of silence as the foreigner took in his words. From the look on the man’s face, he hadn’t been expecting a response so easily. 

“I’m sorry, she really was a wonderful lady. I’m sure you miss her.” A sigh, cup of hot tea placed on the counter, tender taken and deposited in the old-fashioned register. 

“She talked about you a lot.” The foreigner offered, blowing on the tea to cool it. 

“I hear you were in the Land Component.” 

"Something like that” Damned old woman mouthing off about him to total strangers. He loved her, but sometimes she made him want to pull his hair out. 

“For how long?” A new attempt at making in-roads today, focusing on questions rather than offered information. 

He opted not to answer, instead milling around making like he was busy with work. 

The questions stopped for a long moment, one he savored, willing his life to return to its uncomplicated, comfortable rhythm. Before this foreigner shaped typhoon tore a hole through his world. 

“Would you consider a date with me?” was the final question of the day, it too earned no response. 

The fourth day was the same as the third. Questions were asked and went unanswered, ending again on the unacknowledged proposition of a date. 

The fifth day the pattern seemed fully formed. 

The sixth day, Saturday, was a perfect storm. At lunch, the only person he was less enthused to see than the foreigner wandering through his door made their first appearance in two weeks. 

“Mon-Petit!” Her shill voice rang out across the shop, arms spread out for a hug. “How I’ve missed you” She cooed, and he narrowly escaped her death-hold. 

“Four-Eyes” he acknowledged her, dipping back behind the counter to pour her a cup of Jasmine Green. 

“How’s business.” 

“Fine.” 

“Anything interesting happen lately?” 

“No.” 

“Are you sure?” She asked, eyebrow wiggling, lips smirking. 

“Very.” A huff, a groan, a dramatic flourish, and she accepted the warm cup of Green from him. 

They made it almost an hour before hell broke through from the underworld and flooded through the floorboards into his shop. 

The clinking of the bell heralded its arrival: the demon with sparkling cerulean blues, and a strangely alluring accent. 

“Oh, you have company.” He chuckled, taking the seat next to the wild-haired woman who sat upon his usual stool. 

“And who might you be?” She leaned in to investigate closer, eyeing him carefully, taking the foreigner all in. 

“A friend of Madame Ophélie’s.” The man clarified, and he found himself grateful for the brat’s discretion in the presence of this cyclone of a woman. 

“It’s so sad about her passing.” 

“Yeah, I wish I had known sooner. I was out of town on business when it happened.” 

He weighed his options: voluntarily speak to the foreigner to get his drink order, and therefore get him out of the shop faster, or ignore the foreigner and avoid having to speak with the irritating man. 

“What do you want?” He chose, voice gruff as he wiped down a ceramic kettle. 

“Surprise me” with a wink that was incredibly uncalled for. 

The foreigner and the bespectacled whirlwind carried on like old friends. From his grandmother, to how he met her, to Levi himself, and finally to what the brat was doing in Belgium in the first place. 

“To find my soulmate.” Was the reply, confident and decisive. He almost dropped the cup full of tea to the ground. 

“Oh, that’s so romantic. What makes you figure they’re here? 

“My words are in Walloon.” The brat flicked his eyes across the counter, trying to establish contact, which was quickly denied. 

“Oh that’s so curious! Levi’s are in Walloon. Well, partly in Walloon.” 

“Partly in German.” The foreigner added with a nod. 

Hanji appeared to freeze in place, mouth slack, eyes wide and fixated on the foreigner next to her. 

“You aren’t saying…” she trailed off. 

“I am.” 

Yes, a perfect storm indeed. 

From there, his own personal hell grew hotter as she began to interrogate as to why she was just hearing of this now, and why they hadn’t already set the wedding date yet, and oh my word Erwin is just going to have a heart attack! 

His life was never going to go back to the comforting lull it had once been, was it? 

The day ended with a familiar question, and once again he refused to reply. 

Unfortunately for him, he was no longer in control of his life. 

It had been a nice three months, at least. 

“Of course he will.” 

The conspirators exchanged numbers, a certain rat’s nest headed woman assuring a lanky, foreign brat that he would be there or face the wrath of Hanji Zoë. 

The seventh day was quiet, no sign of the foreign brat, or the bespectacled woman. Which could either be happy coincidence or spell his downfall. 

His money was on the latter. 

He wasn’t wrong. 

A text message timed exactly at closing from one Erwin Smith instructed him to come to Café Rose for dinner with himself and the missus. He should have suspected when the destination was set at such a swanky café. He should have known Hanji would involve Erwin. 

Upon arrival he noticed a severe lack of muscle-bound blondes with petite, brunette wives and cursed himself for falling for such a stupid trick. He should have known, but he didn’t think they would strike so soon. He figured he had at least a week before he had to start being smart about which invitations he accepted. 

“There’s no escaping this, Levi.” Accented French wormed its way into his ears from behind. 

“I’m sure that came out creepier than you intended” 

“You’d be right.” With a chuckle. 

One table for two, a bottle of Cabernet, and ten uninterrupted minutes of silence. 

“If you aren’t going to say anything, I’m just going to start talking.” Came the threat. 

He wasn’t sure which option was worse. 

“Couldn’t have picked a more cliché place?” He compromised with sarcasm and insults. 

“Hanji picked it. She said you liked their soup.” 

“She wasn’t wrong.” A lull in the conversation, he was making this as difficult as possible. He would concede nothing. If he was going to be here against his will, the foreign brat was going to be forced to carry the conversation in his second language. 

“How long were you in the military?” 

“Fifteen years, give or take.” 

“How long have you been retired?” 

“Five months.” 

“Did you like it?” 

“It paid the bills.” A long, drawn out sigh and a rolling of eyes. Maybe he should have cooperated more. 

“I’m from Chicago. My parents immigrated from Munich right before I was born, though they never bothered to teach me German.” Apparently the responses were unsatisfactory, and now the threat was being carried through. “I’ve lived in Liège for just over five years, now. I moved over here to find you, which I miraculously did. Do you even speak Walloon? I mean, I assume you don’t. Since I don’t speak German, and it was still in the words. I work for a publisher close to the shop, they’ve had me doing deliveries for a little over a year now. That’s how I met your grandmother. She was actually my first delivery, believe it or not.” Yes, this was definitely worse than cooperating. “How’s my French? Not too bad? I’m still learning Dutch, but you don’t really need it in Liège, do you? Plus, with my English I can generally get by with just the two. Do you speak Dutch? What about English?” Dear Lord, please make it stop. 

“The army was fine. Didn’t love it, didn’t hate it. It was stressful, but stimulating. I dropped out of college to join the military, and served for just over fifteen years.” He took a deep breath before continuing. This was too much; he should stop offering so much information. But he needed the brat to just. Shut. Up. “I don’t speak Walloon, my grandmother did though. You’re French is passable; you’ve got one hell of an American accent though. And fuck the Dutch, and the English, their languages are shit.” He polished off his glass of wine, pouring another and downing it too. 

“Wow.” The foreigner blinked at him slowly, amazed, before breaking into a fit of laughter. 

“You’re just like your grandmother, once you actually get talking.” Words breathed between giggles. 

The brat knew which compliments would be most effective, it seemed. 

The night went smoother after that. No more outbursts, or awkward information dumps. 

He found, once he actually stomached his pride and spoke like a normal human being with the American, the brat could be funny. Their brand of off-color humor was similar, and the man could appreciate well-timed toilet humor: something that was scarce in this day in age. 

He noticed many things about the foreigner. Like the way his cerulean blues sparkled when the brat really got into the topic at hand, and the way he wildly gesticulated when accused of being a brat, or when Levi cracked a joke at his expense. The way his accent deepened, and more English phrases slipped in as the man became more emotional, and the way his lips pulled back when he smiled, revealing pearly white aligned in a perfect row. 

And the way the man’s forearms flexed when he reached for his glass, familiar scrawled words twisting on the surface of his skin, and the way he tipped his head back when he laughed deeply. But mostly he noticed the way the foreigner wasn’t afraid to meet his harshest glare head on, with a smile no less. 

At the end of the night, he was perplexed. 

He never wanted anything to do with the words etched on his arm, or the person on the other end of the connection. 

Never had any desire to seek them out, discover just what kind of person the universe had chosen for him 

But now that he was here, relaxing across the table from the man, he couldn’t picture his life any other way. 

And that was fucking terrifying. 

###### 

###### 

The eighth day. 

The ninth day. 

The tenth day. 

The eleventh day. 

The twelfth day. 

The thirteenth day. 

The fourteenth day. 

Another week. 

Another week passed, and he hadn’t returned to the little shop with the perfect tea brews and the curious, attractive shop-owner. 

After their forced date, he felt a shift. The man had actually held a conversation with him. They spoke like normal humans: joked, shared, and commiserated. While it fell short of where he hoped they would be by this point - which was nowhere less than lying together in bed too sore from their latest romp to move - it was undeniable progress. 

He wanted to return, honestly he did. But work began to pick up, and advice from Hanji had led him to believe letting the confusing man with the black hair and sharp features stew in his own juices for a little while would only play to his advantages. 

So, on the fifteenth day, when he waltzed in to the shop for the first time in a week, he was surprised to find the man he most wanted to see suspiciously absent. 

The sixteenth day, was once again soulmate-less. 

It was strange, the man didn’t seem the time to take off like this. But then again, he didn’t really know the shop keep as well as he’d like. 

The seventeenth day, thankfully, the man had returned to his post behind the counter. 

“Surprise me.” He sat with a grin, sliding tender across the counter. The man worked silently to prepare the mystery tea as he looked on, watching each delicate, deliberate move with care. 

“Where were you yesterday, and the day before?” He asked once the tea sat steaming in front of him. 

“Took some personal days.” Was the answer. 

“Sorry I haven’t been in in so long.” 

“I hadn’t noticed.” The tone was plain, but something told him that the man before him noticed very much. 

“I got super busy at work. I’ll try to keep that from happening again.” 

“Don’t worry about it.” A twitch of thin lips told him he should worry about it. 

The eighteenth day followed the same pattern as the before. Few words offered, in exchange for long stares and questioning glances. 

The nineteenth day was punctuated with grazing touches as a full, and then empty cup was passed between them. 

The twentieth day brought lingering hands in place of grazing fingers. Bolder and more assertive. 

The twenty-first day saw reversion to longing glances, and shy stares. 

The twenty-second day brought something new entirely. 

“What are you doing after you’re done here?” the question was unexpected. Few words had come between them all week, and suddenly this. The black-haired shop keep wasn’t one to ask questions, he wasn’t sure what to make of this sudden change. 

“Nothing.” 

“I need some help with the inventory, do you mind?” It was nonchalant, practically blasé. But he knew how much consideration and planning must have gone into just that one, ten-word sentence. 

“Of course I don’t. I’d be happy to help.” A warm smiled was offered, but not reciprocated. Met only with a casual roll of silver eyes, and a quirk of the lips. 

Later, after the tea was drank and the shop closed, he was escorted down a cramped staircase towards the store rooms. 

He wasn’t sure if he should have been offended. 

“I feel like I’m being used.” Arms stretched to the top shelf, pulling product from the very back. 

“You are being used.” 

He wasn’t sure what he imagined when his assistance was requested, but this? 

“Don’t you have a stool for this?” Hands covered in dust, boxes slipping from his fingers-tips just out of reach. 

“It broke.” The only acknowledgement as a pen was dragged across the clipboard in the man's hands. 

“If only you were a normal height, then I wouldn’t be choking on thirty years of dust.” The words were punctuated with a loud sneeze and a swift kick to the seat of his pants, at which he laughed once recovered from the violent jerk of the sneeze. 

“Would you rather go home?” 

“No.” He’d much rather spend as much time with the curious man standing next to him in the tiny storage room in the shop’s basement. 

“Then shut up” The words were almost playful, absent all signs of hostility. 

They worked in silence from there as he acquiesced, not wanting to push. Standing shoulder to shoulder, skin sliding against each other as boxes exchanged hands. The proximity was nice, and he wanted to preserve this moment, standing with the man he was destined for. He stared down at the black crown of hair fondly, cautiously trying to determine where they stood with each other, how much was too much, did the grumpy little man like him at all, could he lean over and – 

“What are you doing?” Oh no. 

Palm caressing black hair, softer than it seemed to the eye. 

“Nothing. Sorry.” Words mumbled, pulling away, apology halfhearted. 

“That was not ‘nothing’.” Was that anger, or confusion? 

"It was.” Shifting awkwardly in place, hands going back to the top shelf, trying to busy himself. 

“Eren.” Tone harsh - a warning. 

Just leave it alone. Don’t let this ruin the progress he’d made. Don’t let the man next to him become angry, and force him to leave. He’d spent three weeks to get to this point. Starting over from square one would be agony. 

A hand resting on an outstretched arm, forcing it down. 

“Eren.” Again, less harsh now. Trying to get his attention. 

Cautious cerulean blue eyes greet hesitant gunmetal, closer than he remembered. 

So close. 

Practically touching. 

Thin, dry lips meet his, tasting faintly of dust and tea. 

And it’s over as so as it began, angular cheeks colored, eyes unsure. 

He’s lost in the beautiful man before him, eyes searching for permission and lips reunite, already craving the contact. Arms cage the black-haired shop keep against the shelves, back awkwardly pressed to cool metal. Thin fingers entangled in brunette locks, bodies pressed together, breathing forgotten. Tongues collide, hands roam, mind blanks. 

It’s happening, it’s really happening. 

They part, confused blues staring down into shy ash. He’s at a loss for words. What could he possibly say after that? 

There's only one thing, really. 

“Would you consider a date with me?” A small chuckle in return, a sound more beautiful than any he’s heard before. A sound still unfamiliar, but he hopes to know better than any other. 

“You’re a little shit.” 

“Is that a yes?” A peck to a sharp cheek bone, tan fingers sliding through black strands. 

Of course it’s a yes. 

The fourth week is full of firsts: the first time walking next to Levi, large, tan hand encasing a much smaller, pale fingers; the first time in Levi’s apartment, lip worried between teeth with unease; the first time on Levi’s couch, knee bouncing from the nerves. 

The first time Levi’s lips are pressed to the skin of his neck, moving deliberately against him, sucking and mouthing at him as the lips trail down and teeth nip lightly at his collar bone. 

The first time he’s pulling Levi’s shirt over his head, hands immediately roaming - acquainting themselves with every inch of exposed porcelain. 

The first time Levi’s hands pull at his belt, freeing his hips from their clothed confines. 

The first time Levi’s mouth is on him: dexterous and precise. Toes curled and fists grasping at black strands as the man's tongue swirls around him, and head bobs at a fast pace taking him in. 

The first time he’s pressed back into Levi’s sheets, hands digging into his hips, lengths pressed together offering a delicious amount of friction, fingers slicked and prodding against his waiting entrance. 

The first time Levi’s inside him, breathing heavily, whole body shaking in pleasure; sweat dripping, plastering black strands to a gorgeous face twisted in delicious ecstasy. 

The first time he finds his release, Levi’s hand on him as the man thrusts erratically towards his own end. 

The first time he whispers I love you, “Je t'aime”, hand brushing long black strands behind an ear lobe, lips pecking a kiss to a sweat-coated forehead. 

The first time it’s whispered back, so quiet it’s almost inaudible, voice shaking and unsure. 

The first time he falls asleep, curled around his soulmate, their limbs intertwined. 

It’s not perfect: they bicker, they shout, they disagree. 

But he’s never been happier. 

In his sixth year, curled around his soulmate in their bed, he stares fondly down at the scar-like words scrawled on the pale arm lazed across his chest, no longer meaningless. 

They meant love. 

They meant home. 

They meant Levi.

**Author's Note:**

> [My tumblr](http://rglass.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> If you read [Sorry](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5769505/chapters/13295287) or [The Feeling](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5846590/chapters/13475542) then updates should be coming in a few weeks, still. I might find time to get a chapter up between tomorrow and the 6th, but no promises. Sorry, everybody :/
> 
> Hope you liked it!  
> Much love,  
> RG


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